


Truth Will Out

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, OT3, Outed, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg, Sherlock and John are in a relationship that they keep hidden, until Greg is injured and the truth comes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Will Out

**Author's Note:**

> Any recognizable characters don't belong to me. No disrespect is intended and no money is made. 
> 
> I wrote this from a prompt in 8Dreamcatcher8's Live Journal.

 

The empty apartment building slumped behind the assembled police vehicles, looking almost embarrassed to be the scene of such unpleasantness. It might have been lovely, once; a picturesque place where people lived, and laughed, and loved. Or maybe not; maybe they had fought and bickered and conned each other. Some combination of the two was, of course, the most likely. But today it stood derelict, ignored except by the invisible members all polite societies pretend don’t exist. Greg could only be glad that someone had felt it was worth calling the police instead of ignoring the corpse in the grimy lobby. His phone chirruped with a text.

_Five minutes._

_-SH_

 

Greg looked up to see an enraged Anderson standing before him. It didn’t really do anything for the view.

“So, we all cool our heels waiting for freak and friend?”

 God, not this again. Greg had hoped that when Sherlock’s name was cleared it’d let up a little bit.

“Anderson.” He tried to keep his voice crisp and authoritative, rather than wearily defensive. “Do you want to be written up? Sent back to sensitivity training? Ask me a professional question that I can answer.”  He watched the officer draw a deep breath and stuff down the irritation.

“Are we holding the scene for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?” Lestrade responded to the words, electing to ignore the oily and sarcastic tone.

“Better. And yes, they’re on their way. Can you get pictures of the scene without disturbing anything?”

“Yes, fine, I can do that.” Turning on his heel, conspicuously not looking at Donovan, Anderson strode away.

Sally sighed and picked up a thermos from the seat of the patrol car. She waggled an empty foam cup at him inquiringly. As she poured, she said “Bunch of us are going to the pub after work. Want to tag along?”

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, not this time. Got plans. Besides, you won’t meet anyone nice with me there. I’d look like Grand-da taking out the kiddies.” He ruffled his silver hair and wished she’d meet someone nice.  Anderson was professionally competent but that was all the good he could say of the man. How he kept two otherwise intelligent and ambitious women on the string defied comprehension.                                                                                                                                                              

Sally snorted. ”Silver Fox, not Grand-dad.  Anyway, I’m not looking to meet anybody. Men are just liars, losers, or cheaters.” Ah. Anderson was back with his wife, then.  “And the ones I meet at pubs are the worst of the lot” she continued, “entirely too interested in the handcuffs, or else losers just looking to get off and get gone.”

Greg winced, deciding that maybe her relationship with Anderson wasn’t so incomprehensible after all. Donovan was a tough cop, but the traits that made her a successful officer left her formidably unapproachable by those outside the force. Few enough fellow cops bothered with a second date, never mind civilians. Anderson was at least reliable and consistent, always returning to Sally when the latest attempt at marital reconciliation had failed. Greg understood all too well how a person could confuse being used, for being loved. He counted himself one of the lucky ones, to have finally learned the difference. Double lucky.

 Sally finished her coffee, scrawled her name over the cup for later. “Plans? Got a date, then?” she asked, watching a cab pull up and disgorge the consultant and his assistant. Greg forced himself not to smile, even as his heart lifted just from being in the same space as the other two. “Nah, just a Bond night with some pals.” Not exactly a lie. The more complex relationship had its roots in true friendship. As much as he loved his partners, as fundamental as their arrangement was becoming to his happiness, it just made more sense to keep their relationship private. Social progress notwithstanding, NSY really wasn’t ready for an openly polyamorous DI. Pulling his attention back to the conversation, he shrugged and aimed for nonchalant. “We’re working our way through the collection; tonight is _Goldfinger_.”

 Sally nodded “Well, enjoy that then.”

Greg grinned. “Bond night, Sal. What’s not to enjoy?” Particularly when it came to the effect Connery had on a certain blogger.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John was crouched over the body, nitrile covered hands gently probing as he outlined their findings. “Yeah, the body has certainly been moved...see, here?” He indicated the purple discoloration on the abdomen. “She was lying on her front after she died, long enough for the lividity to settle. I’m sure your team can work out the time frame, but we’re looking at several hours between killing her and moving the body.”

 Lestrade tried not to obviously watch Sherlock looming over John, scanning the room for threats. Unable to openly proclaim his attachment to Lestrade, he tended toward possessiveness of the partner he could publically acknowledge when they worked together. Really, it should have been annoying. Greg knew a better man would be indignant on John’s behalf, not aroused on his own. He cleared his throat. “So, the...battering?” he gestured to the body.

“Was almost certainly done after she’d died and the body had been moved. Not enough blood here.” John confirmed.

Sherlock began to prowl around the scene, his face intent. The tails of that ridiculously sexy coat lashed behind him as he stalked around the room, seeming occasionally to be scenting the air. _He’s a panther on the hunt_ thought Lestrade. _A magnificent, growling, panther._ John had peeled off his gloves, was walking toward the entry to remove the paper bunny suit, when Sherlock announced “The murderer never left. He’s still here.”

Lestrade looked around the abandoned lobby. “Sherlock, my officers cleared the scene before I even texted you.” He began stripping out of his own protective gear.  

“Your team is full of idiots, Lestrade. He’s. Still. Here.” The tall man pushed past his partners and headed up the crumbling stairs.

John sighed, dropped his bunny suit into the waiting bag, and began to follow him up the stairs. “Coming?” he asked resignedly. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll catch up. One of us has to do actual cop work.” So saying, Greg pulled the radio from his belt and called his team to process the scene.  After seeing them started, he made his own way up the stairs.

John awaited him in the hallway. “He’s in there,” pointing to a doorway on the left, “but wanted you to see this.” The doctor led Lestrade through the door nearest the staircase, pointing out the tell-tale signs –to Sherlock, anyway- of a hurriedly abandoned squat. “Might be some witnesses; should help you build a case if there are.”

“Right. Of course, finding them and then getting them to admit to squatting so we can get a witness statement isn’t problematic at all. Assuming they saw anything, assuming the squatter wasn’t the murderer or the victim.”

John shot him an apologetic look, saying “I think that’s under the heading of ‘actual cop work’, isn’t it?”

“Smart arse. Shall we go see if Bagheera has turned up anything?”

“Bagheer...oh, God, you’re right, he is exactly like a panther. Bet you can’t slip that one in, in front of witnesses.”

Greg chuckled. “Mycroft, 20 pounds.”

“I’d have said 20 for Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft’s worth 50.”  

They shook on it, and Greg led the way out to the hallway. It was turning to share one last, secret smile with John that left him exposed. As he stepped in front of the stairwell, a frightened man in ragged jeans and a down vest burst from the room Sherlock had been searching. In desperation he shoved Lestrade, leaping down nearly the entire flight. Greg barely registered Sherlock grabbing at him as he flailed and began to plunge sideways down the narrow stairs. His gloved hands flew out and caught at the railing, only to have it collapse beneath him and send him plummeting onto the flight below. He heard the snap in his left arm as it collapsed beneath his tumbling body, felt the crunch in his shoulder, distantly registered the flashes behind his eyes as his head bounced on filthy treads and he finally came to rest against the wall. Dimly he heard the sounds of his team wrestling the assailant; he spared a hope that they’d get him safely into a patrol car before Sherlock caught up with him. Then John was kneeling at his side, probing and prodding, calling out for someone to get an ambulance here “right now, damn it”. Blackness rolled over him, buzzing and hot, and he let it carry him away from the shouting and pain.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

His next awareness was of Sherlock’s voice in his ear saying “John, he’s coming ‘round”. He realized he’d been pulled in against the taller man’s body, left wrist protectively cradled between his own chest and those long fingers.

John knelt in front of him, pressing his fingers into Greg’s right wrist. “Back with us?”  Greg blinked over the Doctor’s shoulder, saw Donovan on her radio. John fished his flashlight out of his pocket and shone it in Greg’s eyes.

“Damn it, Johnny. You know I hate that.”

“Yeah, I know. I won’t do it again.”

Sherlock spoke up. “He won’t do it again if you stop getting yourself injured is what he means to say, isn’t that right John? Honestly, you...you could have broken your neck, your back. You could still have a brain injury...John, hadn’t he better have a CT scan, or would an MRI be better? Are you sure there’s no spinal cord damage? Gregory Lestrade, I FORBID you to do this again. If you can’t keep yourself safe in this job, we’ll just have to find you a different one. Maybe Mycroft    would-“

“Sherlock!” Lovely John, wonderful John, commanding John. The only person who could stop Sherlock mid-rant. “That’s really not helping. Hush now, and let me do my job.” Greg was grateful; the angry words spilling from Sherlock’s lips had been whizzing around his head, screaming and snickering. With Sherlock's voice silenced they vanished with disappointed little ‘pops’.

Donovan pressed her hand against John’s shoulder. “Anderson called for an ambulance. What can I do?” Her voice faded in and out, like listening underwater. Greg closed his eyes; everything was wobbly anyway and maybe this way he could concentrate on what was being said. He thought John asked for a blanket, but that couldn’t be right. Sherlock loathed shock blankets.

John’s fingers probed his head, not at all like a caress. Greg wanted it to be a caress.

“You’re too rough, it hurts.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry love. I just need to check you out. Almost done.”  Now John’s voice had gone funny, too.  “Sherlock, I need to look at his wrist. Easy...OK, right, that’s perfect, just hold him there.”

Lestrade gasped and moaned as his forearm was lifted, John’s hand sliding in to support his wrist. His body tensed against Sherlock’s chest, feet bracing against the floor in an instinctive attempt to escape.

That purring voice broke through the fog.  “No, Greg, be still. If you abuse that collarbone any further, John will probably start cursing and spoil his professional image.” The softer tone made dandelion puffs, brushing gently across Lestrade’s bruised face.

“That’s OK, Johnny.” He panted out the reassurance. John hated letting his temper win out.  “We... we love you...anyway...don’t we Sherlock? And...s’exciting... when you’re all sweary... Ow, no, please don’t...that hurts.” The room swirled around him again, acid shades of cold and pain. “Passing out again, John. Nope, sorry, gonna puke first.” Sherlock’s hand pressing firm and cool against the back of his neck forestalled the predicted events. The consultant urged him to breathe slowly, more deeply, and his efforts to comply were rewarded with murmured praise and a soft kiss to his temple.

Anderson’s voice, saying “What the hell?” made him realize that there was something...he’d said...about John? About Sherlock?  He felt himself slipping again and desperately tried to drag his eyes open...sirens wailed in the distance...or somewhere nearby...

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

There was a smell; antiseptic and...marshmallows? No, the sharp-sweet odor of medical adhesive. Hospital, then.  There was a pressure on his bicep, followed by a low-pitched ‘whoosh’ of expelling air and the hum of a printed out reading. Through the throbbing of his head, he noticed the blessed quiet. John must be nearby; he’d remembered how much Greg hated the beeping and chirping, and had silenced the machines. He carefully opened his eyes, expecting the stabbing lights of a typical hospital room but instead finding the lights dimmed and blinds drawn tight. He sighed in relief and heard an answering inhalation. Turning his head didn’t help the ache, but the sight that met his eyes did. Both John and Sherlock were perched in the horrible plastic chairs that comfortably supported exactly no-one.  Hazel eyes flicked over the monitors while a moonstone gaze read from Lestrade’s face everything the machines couldn’t tell.

John looked back and smiled at him. “Thought you might be with us soon. You look like hell.”

Lestrade ventured a wobbly grin in return. “You look amazing. Both of you.” He cast his eyes down, took in the splint on his forearm. “Broken, then?” he asked John.

“Broken, yeah, both radius and ulna. You got lucky though; none of the damage extends into the joint, and it’s a simple break,” John drew a forefinger along his own wrist, demonstrating where the damage had occurred. “You’ll have the splint for a few days, then, when the swelling subsides, you’ll get a lovely cast. I thought pink, but Sherlock suggested hi-vis yellow.” John looked at him shrewdly. “How’s the pain?”

“It’s all in my head.”

“Uh-huh. Funny man. You’ve a concussion, and how you managed not to break your collarbone is anybody’s guess.” John’s face was grim, subdued beneath the relief of seeing him conscious.  

“What’s wrong? Besides the obvious, I mean. Oh, crap, he didn’t get away, did he?”

“No, small chance of that with your team right there, even Sherlock has to give them credit for that.” John cleared his throat unnecessarily. “But...well, when you went down...thing is...you were pretty incoherent...and, well, I guess we weren’t thinking beyond getting you sorted out...”

Sherlock broke in. “What John is trying to say is that, while waiting for the ambulance, the three of us inadvertently disclosed our relationship to your team.”

Lestrade’s heart sank. “Well, doesn’t that just tie the whole thing up in a ribbon?”

Before they could discuss things further, there was a soft tap at the door and Donovan walked in. She looked appraisingly at the three men before her. “Glad to see you awake, sir. Now maybe these two idiots will go home, shower, and change.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but John laid a quelling hand on his arm. “We will, Sergeant Donovan, just as soon as the Doctor lets us know what’s what.”

“So you aren’t his attending physician?”

“I think you know why that would be unethical. What I don’t know is how you’re going to be about it.”

She looked at him, looked at Sherlock, and turned to Lestrade. “Anderson was being a wanker about it, spouting nonsense about ‘moral standards’. I set him straight on that. Well, not really. He won’t see straight on it, but he won’t make a fuss. He knows what’ll happen if he does. As if he holds some sort of moral high ground.” She glanced again between the three of them, shrugged. “I’m in no place to judge, either. I’ve broken it off with him, probably permanently. We’ll see. But as far as I’m concerned, your...relationship...doesn’t need to be discussed outside the team. We can’t help what we know, but it’s not exactly professional for anyone to be gossiping about the private lives of their co-workers, is it? I’ve hidden behind that line often enough, now I’ll stand in front of it.”

John blinked. “Thank you, Sergeant. Sally. “

She looked at Sherlock. “As for you, I still think you’re an arrogant prick who just can’t do things like normal people. Always larger than life, always one step beyond. No, no, not just gay. That’s just not enough, is it? Have two lovers. I can’t find one halfway decent bloke, and you’ve laid claim to two of the best men I’ve ever known. I’m not sure it’s wrong for the reasons Anderson gave, but that doesn't mean I think it's decent. I won’t be the only one thinking it, and he won’t be the only one saying so.”

Sherlock tipped his chin defiantly. “That comes as no surprise.”

“Well. Maybe there’s something about you that I just can’t see. Because these guys? They don’t just KNOW what’s good and right, they ARE what’s good and right. And however crazy I think it is, what I saw out there was real.” She glanced among their wary faces, shook her head as if to clear away the confusion and doubt. “For your sake, sir, I’ll break the heads of anyone who says fuck all about any of it. That’s for you, and for John.” She swept Sherlock with a laser glare. “And you? Don’t you dare hurt them. Don’t you dare leave. John was so lost, so confused, we were all so worried for him. Don’t you ever do that again. Not to either of them. If you do, even your brother won’t be able to protect you. I’ll find you, and you will be very, very sorry.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, and then Sherlock spoke, low and intense. “Sergeant Donovan. On this we are in complete agreement. They _are_ all that is good and right, and I place their happiness and well-being far above my own. If I do cause them pain of that magnitude again, I will deserve whatever retribution you would care to inflict. If I hurt them, I will put myself willingly in your hands.”

Sally studied him carefully, assessing his truthfulness, though everyone in the room could feel the sincerity of those words. “Right. I think we understand each other then.” Her next words were softer, addressed to all of them. “I don’t get how it works, but I guess it does. We’ll see you when you’re cleared back to work, sir. Take...take care of each other, yeah?” She turned and marched determinedly from the room.

Each man looked at the beloved faces before him, eyes to eyes to eyes. John’s hand rested softly on Greg’s good shoulder, Sherlock’s on his blanket covered knee. Detective and blogger twined their fingers together to complete the circle. Smiles of silent agreement passed over weary faces. Sally Donovan was no expert on relationships, but her instruction in this instance was sound and easily followed. They would take care of each other, today and tomorrow and on all the days yet to come.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how well I filled this; the original prompt requested 'near death' and I just...couldn't. Not to the boys. I felt bad enough just taking it this far!
> 
> Thanks to PipMer and Sabrina_Phynn for their very helpful suggestions.


End file.
